


Viewpoint

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:38:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Essentially, Spock shows up some Vulcan bullies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viewpoint

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon's "For some reason or other the Enterprise is on New Vulcan or there are a handful of vulcans on the ship for a mission of some sort, and among those are the ones who gave Spock smack about being half human   
> So Spock totally doesn't flaunt his totally badass/rad/gorgeous/intelligent girlfriend/boyfriend/mate/whathaveyou. (And by doesn't I mean he does, in complete Spock fashion, because they're amazing everyone should be jelly) " prompt on the [Star Trek ID Kink Meme](http://strek-id-kink.livejournal.com/2836.html?thread=1110036#t1110036).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s trepidation when the Enterprise first agrees to transport several Vulcans from a local hidden science post on a primitive planet to New Vulcan. The prickle of shame and irritation over that reaction is worse than the anxiety itself. It puts Spock in a minor spool of emotional turmoil—nothing that would even register by human standards, but it’s enough to give him the thought: _they were right_.

And he recognizes three of the faces, too. Three men that were boys next to him, attending the same school and haunting the same community, calling him human and his father a traitor. He doesn’t attend when they’re greeted and set up on the ship; one knowing look from him to his captain and he’s excused. A part of him thinks that might be worse, giving in. But the rest of him _remembers_. ...That’s a memory that Jim can’t be a part of. 

Nyota asks, of course. She sees the frown in his eyes, but he won’t betray the part of him that is a betrayal itself—illogical issues where there are none. He spends the majority of his shift at his console, drumming up useless, thin self-assurances. He’s older now. He’s better. He doesn’t have to resort to punches, and they have no power over him. 

They’re on _his_ ship, under _his_ captain, with _his_ Lieutenant on the comm. 

When he does proceed to the messhall, knowing full well they’ll be there, he times it for when both Nyota and Jim are showing signs of hunger. They’ll dally around their quarters first, but Spock doesn’t need to enter flanked. He’s older and wiser; he walks through the sliding doors with his back straight. He heads straight for the Synthesizer mounted in the far wall, and he enunciates clearly, “Plomeek soup.”

The Vulcans are, of course, sitting at the table directly beside the machine, three of them taking up four of the chairs: the same cluster they always were. There’s the illusion of one spare seat for the one spare Vulcan, but Spock doesn’t presume to sit there. He stares at the whirring molecules of his forming food, and one of them, the center one, says blankly, “Spock. It has been a long time.”

Not long enough, Spock thinks, but as Vulcans don’t lie, that doesn’t inspire any useful conversation. He settles on, “Suval.” Simply a name, nothing more, with an utter lack of connotation.

“You’re serving on a human vessel,” the one on the left says, equally as dry.

“A Starfleet vessel,” Spock corrects.

“Full of primarily humans.” The one on the right this time.

“You are likely the only Vulcan aboard.”

“An outcast. Again. All alone.”

“Do you have any feelings on the matter?”

“Isolation, perhaps? Loneliness?”

“A sense of not quite belonging?”

They haven’t changed a day. Do they really have nothing better to do with their time? On the tall one—Suval—Spock sees a smirk where there is none. He sees the intent behind the masks. They’re all watching him, unblinking and unchanging, as though waiting for him to explode. Vulcans have their own ways of processing and deriving amusement. If entertainment is what they want, Spock is just now prepared to provide it. 

Because the doors are sliding open at the end of the room, and Nyota comes strutting in, hips swaying enticingly from side to side and her hair swinging buoyantly behind her. Spock inclines his head towards her, making sure to take in every centimeter of her supple form, inviting the others to do the same. They can look, but they can’t have. Nyota walks right up to him and leans over to the Synthesizer, ordering softly, “Strawberry crepe, recipe seven.” Spock pulls his Plomeek soup aside to give her room, and she smiles radiantly at him. “Thank you.” 

Spock nods, face utterly unaffected. She waits beside him while her plate forms, not giving a second glance to the men at the table beside them. Spock takes another moment to visibly examine her. She leans back, arms crossed over her ample chest. The line of her body is an exquisite piece of art. Her short dress clings to her curves in all the right places, her hair slips delicately over her shoulder, and the dark curve of her eyeliner gives her a perpetually sensual look. Her beauty is undeniable.

Her mind is a similar matter. Xenolinguistics are not her only talent in the field of language. Spock is subtle but deliberate with his body, tilting his chin towards their guests and intensely connecting with her eyes, hands stiff around his tray and posture impeccable. She rakes over him as he says, “Nyota—” not Lieutenant Uhura, which is customary for public appearances, “have you met our guests?” 

“Not officially,” Nyota concedes, body turning towards them, a knowing look in her eye. She nods politely. “Lieutenant Uhura, communications officer.” Her breath cuts off a millisecond early.

Spock’s found a hair on the brim of her dress, and he ducks down to pluck it off, fingertips lingering longer than necessary on her upper thigh. He drops it aside, and Nyota absolutely purrs, “Thank you, Spock.” It’s not an activity he would normally engage in, publicly grooming a mate, but these are extenuating circumstances. He nods as he smoothes the fabric back out across her lap, debating internally whether or not to drape his arm possessively around her waist. In the end, he decides against it; he can’t risk being considered too blatant or attached. When she leans into him, it gives the impression that he owns her so thoroughly that he needs not enforce it, anyway.

“Spock.” Her dark eyes on him, voice low and full of undertone: “You’ll come sit with me, won’t you?”

Spock looks down at his Plomeek soup, as though weighing his solitude with it against the company of Nyota. He’s acutely aware of three sets of eyes on them, and how foreign and exotic and _alluring_ Nyota is. Her demeanor is cool and calm, just like a Vulcan would desire, but with enough fire to keep it interesting and make her more of a challenge. He’s sure they’re all wondering what it would take to get a woman like her, but Nyota only has eyes for Spock. “Oh, _please_?” With her tray still sitting in the Synthesizer, Nyota has both arms free to wrap around Spock’s, leaning beautifully into him and flattening her chest against his sleeve. “I know you must want to catch up with the Vulcans, but I promise if you sit with me, I’ll make it more than worth your while...”

She isn’t saying anything overtly inappropriate. But her tone and half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks and arched body make it very obvious. Spock pretends to be unaffected and again torn, eyes sliding leisurely between her and the occupied table. As though it’s a difficult choice. Because his new life is so abundant with the very best that he’s grown tired of the fineries. 

He doesn’t have to decide. Jim’s through the door next, and Nyota doesn’t let go. She’s staring at Jim with one eyebrow raised, probably passing on the game. She doesn’t need to. Spock catches Jim’s eye first, and that _connection_ the two of them have, so powerful, is enough. Jim glances at the table of Vulcans with a grin, hands going to his hips. He’s still in full uniform, golden. “Hey, I just got off the bridge—we’ll be at New Vulcan in two days. How’s the ship treating you?” They know who he is, obviously. 

He’s the captain—the captain of the best ship in the fleet, and the man who destroyed Nero after Nero...

Jim needs no introduction. The Vulcan on the left—T’pern, if Spock remembers correctly—says with a raised eyebrow, “The ship is an inanimate entity incapable of treating anyone one way or another.”

Jim bursts out into laughter immediately, crossing his arms and declaring to Nyota, “Good lord, it’s going to be like having a shipful of Spocks.” But he catches the glimmer in Spock’s eye and continues, “A little less quick and handsome obviously, but I don’t think I could handle any more full Spocks, anyway, if you get my drift.” He winks raunchily at the table of spectators, and Spock can see the confusion and disbelief in their eyes. Jim is being... completely inappropriate. 

But Jim’s inappropriate. He says, “Cheeseburger and fries,” at the Synthesizer, reaching over to pass Nyota her complete tray of crepe. Glancing at the hold she still has on Spock, he asks, “You’re sitting with me, right, Spock?”

“He’s mine today,” Nyota decrees, tightening her grip. Spock is rigidly silent. 

“You had him yesterday,” Jim practically pouts. “C’mon—I need my first officer.”

“And I need my favourite man.” Nyota’s voice is an erotic hiss akin to another purr. The corners of Jim’s cheeks get a little pink, and his brilliant, blue eyes are alight, getting lost in a game that will inevitably end in his pleasure. He’s every bit as perfect as she is, strong and chiseled and possibly the most attractive man of any species Spock’s ever seen. He doesn’t have the Vulcan composure, but he does have a presence of importance and power. Even if none of the other Vulcans are inclined to their own sex, it’s likely there’s still a spot of jealousy to have over being so close with such an infamous captain. 

Jealousy. An emotion. Spock can feel it, thick in the air as he flaunts his mates, and the two fight over him like he’s the most wondrous thing to ever bless their lives. Jim says, “I want him with me,” and Nyota says, “So do I.”

And Spock finally cuts in, apathetic as an unprogrammed android, “Perhaps I will sit with my fellow Vulcans.” He raises one careful eyebrow. Suval is openly frowning. Not a one of them says anything. 

Jim chuckles, “No way. They had their chance with you before you decided to join Starfleet, and they blew it. And now, Commander Spock, we’re incredibly fortunate to have you as _ours._ ” His voice has become a thick, alluring growl, and he reaches for his tray, nodding across the hall. 

Nyota helps turn Spock, but he breaks away to walk ahead. The other two trail him adoringly. When they’re sufficiently far enough from the Vulcans, Nyota whispers into Spock’s pointed ear, “Your smirk is showing.” He gives her a stern look, and she chirps, “Joking,” before pecking his cheek. 

They all set their trays down, Spock’s back to the others, Nyota next to him, and Jim across, so that his tantalizing force is in plain view. He leans across the table, chuckling quietly, “I didn’t know Vulcans were so petty. Did we get it right?”

In light of their recent help, Spock allows the insult to slide. “You did excellently.”

Jim squeezes his knee under the table. “Good.”

The three of them proceed to eat and chatter, glowing just a little too loud.


End file.
